


And Spaces Between Us

by WhatBecomesOfYou



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Protective!Derek, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:05:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatBecomesOfYou/pseuds/WhatBecomesOfYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets attacked by a rogue Omega. Derek saves him, but starts acting a little differently afterward...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainbowkitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowkitten/gifts).



There were things that he should have known by now, living in Beacon Hills. Especially living in a Beacon Hills where there were, you know, _werewolves_. Werewolves that could maim and kill and bite.

He was even dating a werewolf, for crying out loud. Which gave him a certain cachet, he thought, putting him right up there with Allison for the title of “hairiest boyfriend.” But besides all that, it was kind of fun dating a werewolf. It was like having a big, hairy bodyguard with him at all times.

Or almost all times, he thought to himself, as he walked down the sidewalk. Because it was probably never a really, truly safe thing to do in Beacon Hills, to walk alone somewhere at night. Derek-less. Down that road lay maiming and desiccated corpses, and he really did like his body being fully intact and, you know, _alive_.

Because if he wasn't alive, then he couldn't hang out with his friends, or Derek, or breathe, or any of the number of other things that he really did enjoy doing on a day to day basis.

He pulled his jean jacket tighter against him and muttered something indecipherable under his breath. He would be glad when he could be at home, resting and relaxing and sleeping, instead of out as some sort of perverse werewolf bait. Maybe he should have taken Scott up on his offer of coming over and crashing at his place. Or maybe if he could have gotten ahold of Derek – and who know what he was even up to -

He heard the crunching of a twig from somewhere behind him, interrupting him from his train of thought. _There's no need to worry_ , he told himself. Which was totally Stiles-speak for _yeah, right,_ _run like the wind, little one._ He quickened his pace just a bit, feeling a bit of a spring in his step as he did so. It could be completely innocent. A deer. Right. Like deer just nonchalantly walk down the sidewalks of suburbia.

He didn't dare turn around. If these were his last moments on Earth, he would rather live in blissful ignorance of that fact. He would rather pretend like he had a whole lifetime stretched out before him, instead of dying bloodied and alone on a sidewalk. His breath caught in his throat, and he sped along just that much faster. He heard more twigs crunching behind him, and no one calling out his name – or even a simple, “hey, you there, in the jacket. I'm not going to kill you, okay?”

To which he would answer a grateful, “okay,” and all would be said and done and he could go back to breathing at a more normal rate.

But it never came.

Instead, he heard them speeding up, and he was prepared to break out into a full-fledged pell-mell run for his life – which felt vaguely like running away from a wasp when you should be standing still, but either way, the wasp can still get you and sting you and kill you – until a large shadow launched in front of him.

He'd have preferred the wasp. At least he could try to swat at it.

Instead, though, he was faced with a large, lumbering werewolf. He backed up down the sidewalk, taking the steps two at a time. “Hey, whoa there, big guy, I wasn't going to hurt you, I was just going home, not going to bother any werewolves tonight, or any night, no, sirree. I'm A+, werewolf-friendly-certified.”

The werewolf walked toward him, eyes glowing in the light of the streetlamp. It was almost menacing in appearance, he thought. If this was how he was going to die – he felt the sudden coolness of blades of grass crunch under his feet. Crap. So he had somehow managed to walk himself off the sidewalk, in the midst of all this. Coordination: not one of the things he considered a true asset in his life. He couldn't even walk a straight line backwards.

And that might just be the last thing he ever did, and oh, how embarrassing it would be for every one of his friends to realize that Stiles would fail a standard sobriety test even completely sober. He then felt the roughness of tree bark scratching against his jacket. As if this night couldn't have gotten any worse. He was cornered against a tree, by a maniacal werewolf with piercing sky-blue eyes, and he felt every inch of life force draining from his body.

He closed his eyes. Because if there was one thing that he didn't want to do, it was to watch himself have to be mutilated and killed. He would prefer his last memories of himself to be of fully intact limbs and blood coursing through his veins, not spilling out onto these nice people's lawn.

“ _Derek_!” he called out, almost as if acting entirely on pure instinct, as he felt claws dig into the flesh of his cheek. He felt himself fall down against the trunk, and then everything went black.

* * *

Derek heard his name being called, and he picked up his brisk pace – it wasn't quite a run, but it wasn't a merry walk through the park either. Normally, he wouldn't admit to the fact that he was following Stiles – at a very distant pace, but you never knew what kind of trouble one could get into a town overrun by werewolves, and he didn't want anything to ever happen to Stiles, like, ever – but when he heard his name being called out from ahead of where he was, he was spurred into action. Damn the consequences. How many Dereks would Stiles be calling out for? Hopefully only him, he thought, as he bounded over the sidewalks and crossed roads, recklessly aiming directly for where he knew the voice to be coming from.

He saw the werewolf from behind, all looming and foreboding, and his eyes glowed furiously. No one was to ever lay a finger on Stiles. Not ever. He could see a slouched form at the base of the tree, and knew in his heart that it must be Stiles. He ran across the street and lunged on top of the other werewolf, growling and spitting as he did so.

The other werewolf was taken aback by this sudden incursion, he could tell, and straightened up to try to throw him off his back. Derek dug his claws in and rode it down, scratching up his back well. He stood up and connected his fist to the side of his jaw, and knocked him down to the ground with one firm punch. Standing over him, he took the sight before him into account. And then, as if for additional impact, he slammed his foot on top of his stomach, grinding it into him.

“Stay. Away. From. Stiles,” he said, punctuating each word with invisible verbal venom. The werewolf grunted his acknowledgment, and laid there clenching his stomach. Derek turned to Stiles. “Stiles?”

“Y-yeah?” His voice was groggy and out of sorts. “What happened?”

Derek extended his hand to Stiles. “This asshole Omega attacked you.”

“An Omega? How did you – oh, right, because werewolf logic skills dictate that you would know these things.” Stiles could see Derek nodding in the illumination of the street lamp. “I thought he was just a really angry Beta. At least, from what you and Scott have told me.”

“He's an Omega that will learn to keep his powers at bay if he wants to survive his time in Beacon Hills without more threats of violence,” Derek said, directing his barbs toward the werewolf. “Do I make myself clear?” A series of labored grunts was his only reply. “Okay, good.”

Stiles had to suppress a laugh. It was almost like he was one of Derek's pack, and maybe in a convoluted way, he was. Just in the way that a human can join a pack of werewolves, which is by proxy and not by actually going out and doing werewolf-y things. He would never know the thrill of the hunt – thank God for that, he didn't think he had the stomach to do it – and so he would have to find other ways to be involved in Derek's life.

“Was I being funny?” Derek asked, turning to face Stiles and looking at him with caution in his eyes. “Your cheek – it hurts.”

“Yeah. And, uh, yeah.” He placed his hand against his cheek, and felt the gashes that had been ripped through his skin. It barely felt like the cheek that he had known every day of his life, instead, it felt like a stranger on his own face. “It does, but I'll be okay.” He turned to face Derek, and offered him a tentative smile. “How did you know where I was when I needed someone? I called out your name – I never expected you to actually come.”

“This town isn't that big, and I can hear really well,” Derek said, pointing to his ears, as if to say “ _werewolf, duh_.” “And I might have been trying to make sure you were safe. You never know what will come out at night in this town, after all.”

“Your concern is touching,” Stiles said. “No, really. It is.” _Unfamiliar, but touching._

“Do you want to go home now?” Derek asked. “I – I don't think that this werewolf will hurt you again, not as long as I'm here, but I still want to make sure you'll get home safe and sound. You know, there's other werewolves out there besides him and me.”

Stiles stroked his cheek absent-mindedly, feeling the gashes across his face. He kind of wanted to get home and bandage himself up before his father got a chance to see him – he had a feeling that he couldn't claim that his next-door neighbor's tiny little poodle was the culprit on this one. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

“C'm'ere, I'll walk you home,” Derek said, extending his hand out to Stiles. Stiles slid his hand gratefully into Derek's, and the two of them walked down the sidewalk together, hand-in-hand, swinging their hands back and forth in a swaying motion. They were silent except for their breathing; Stiles breathed slow and steady, to alleviate the panic that he felt deep inside, while Derek's breathing was more labored. It was almost as if something had been taken out of him.

They got up to Stiles's front porch, and Stiles saw that the lights were still out – his father wasn't home, or else he would be in the living room, watching something on television or maybe catching up on the headlines from the _Beacon Hills Gazette._ Although being Sheriff, he knew most of the worst of the stories before they even hit the newsprint, he was still prone to reading it every now and then to see what other mundane stories were considered newsworthy. Stiles figured it also helped him to keep up to date with what the high school was trying to pass off as edible food this week.

“My dad's not home,” Stiles said, as if to reaffirm his thoughts. “If you want to come in, you can – we just can't go fool around upstairs, because then he'd come home and catch us, and he would find ways to be upset with me that I can't even _imagine_.”

“No, it's okay,” Derek said. “I was – you're home safe. That's what matter to me right now.” He leaned forward and cupped Stiles's scarred cheek in his hand. “You're safe. No one can hurt you.”

“Yes, I'm safe,” Stiles said, echoing Derek's words back to him. “You don't have to worry about me. Next time I want to walk alone at night, when scary wolves roam the streets – I, uh, won't.” And he meant it. He would wrap himself up in a ball of bubble wrap and roll around the streets of Beacon Hills if it meant that he wouldn't be able to be hurt.

“You can always ask me to walk with you,” Derek said, and Stiles knew in his heart that he meant it. He meant that Stiles could always be with him, and that meant a lot, considering how he knew Derek to be. He was protective of very few people, and even fewer outside of his pack and, well, he knew Derek had to have some familial ties somewhere along the line.

Stiles smiled at his words. “I know. I'll remember that for next time.” He leaned forward and inhaled the inherently wolfy smell that was so prominent with Derek. “I – thank you. For walking me home. For saving me from that creep.”

“Anytime.” And, again, Stiles knew that he meant it. Because Derek rarely said things that he didn't mean wholeheartedly, because that wasn't his style in the least. It was more his style to be direct and blunt and honest. Derek brushed the pads of his fingers along the curve and swell of Stiles's jawline, on the unaffected cheek, and leaned in, and kissed him ever-so-softly. It was soft and tender and not exactly what he had come to associate with kisses from Derek – he was used to things being faster, a little more rough around the edges. Not like he was being kissed by a hero from a romance novel.

It still felt good. Fantastic, even. Because, come on, it was a kiss from Derek. That was like being kissed by a god. A god with really soft lips.

He threw his arm around Derek's neck, pulling him closer with a smile on his face. They traded kisses back and forth for a while, Derek's tongue teasing playfully at the corner of Stiles's mouth, Stiles breathing in short breaths, until they saw a pair of headlights come up the drive. “Guess your father's home now,” Derek said, breaking the moment with a hint of reluctance. “I should -”

“Yeah.” Stiles was almost glum at the prospect of seeing his father after all this,. It meant having to come up with an explanation for why his cheek looked like something left over at the end of a slasher movie, instead of making out with his boyfriend. “If you don't want to go -”

“No, I'll see you tomorrow,” Derek said, kissing him one last time and walking down the path, passing by Stiles's father on the way down. “Evening, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Was that Derek Hale?” his father asked, as he unlocked the front door and turned on the foyer light. As they stepped inside, his father peered at his face, taking in its appearance. “And what happened to your _face_?”

“Yes, it was. And, uh,” he hoped to God that he could pass this off well, and not come across as a total fraud lying for the hell of it, “Binkie did it?”

“You mean Mrs. Ferguson's poodle? I'll have to have a talk with her tomorrow about it. That doesn't really sound like something he would do...” his father trailed off as he thumbed through the day's collection of bills and assorted junk mail.

“I'm fine, Dad, really. Binkie didn't hurt me _that_ badly. I just want to go clean myself up a bit. Derek was giving me advice on how to take care of a dog scratch, that's all. He's good with that sort of thing.”

“Okay.” He wasn't sure how convinced his father was with his guise, but he had to go with it. Besides, it wasn't entirely a series of lies. Derek _was_ good with scratches – both giving and receiving, although that was thankfully not something he knew from first-hand experience.

As he splashed water on his face and pulled out a roll of gauze from the first aid kit beneath the sink, he gauged how bad it looked. On a scale of 1-10, it looked to be about a 7 – deep enough that there would be some scarring, but he wouldn't need emergency medical attention or anything like that. He had to agree with his father – he wasn't sure that a poodle could inflict _that_ much damage, but, then again, poodles could be nasty little things. Anyone who got between Binkie and Mrs. Ferguson on one of their walks could see that, as clear as day. So maybe it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

Even still, he made sure not to lay his cheek against the pillow that night, just to be safe, and so that it would no longer hurt as badly. He didn't want to do anything to irritate the sensitive, healing skin any more than it was already irritated. It was probably for the best, anyway.

* * *

The next morning, he woke up to a voicemail from Derek. “Just wanting to make sure that you're okay,” the terse voice on the other end said, although he could still pick up on a hint of something close to care coming through.

He smiled despite himself – it felt good, in a way, to have and called Derek back. “Everything's good,” he said, when Derek picked up the phone. “It stings a bit, but – you know, that's kind of expected, I guess.”

“Hang on,” Derek said. “I'll be right over.”

Somehow, Stiles wasn't quite expecting _that_ response. A “you hang in there, okay?” or “you'll be okay, I promise” - maybe not in those exact words, but they were more in the line of what he was expecting. This Derek was not a Derek he was used to seeing. Or hearing, more accurately.

He lounged back on his bed and patted at his cheek self-consciously, before swinging his legs off the side of the bed and getting up. He couldn't exactly let Derek in if he was still laying in bed, after all.

And maybe then he could get an explanation for why he was getting the Florence Nightingale act all of a sudden. Because he didn't think that werewolves tended to...tend to things, very often. Let alone injured cheeks.

Maybe this was the start of something different? Or maybe he could get Derek to explain what was going on...

- _to be continued_ -


	2. Chapter 2

Twenty minutes, and one quick date with the loofah in the shower later, he heard a rapid series of knocks at the door – it came fast, and furious, almost as if the person was so anxious that they couldn't do anything but knock. “Coming, coming,” Stiles said, getting up from the couch and walking over to the door. As soon as he opened the door, Derek's arms were around his waist. “I'm sorry it took me so long to get here,” Derek said, kissing him and running his thumb over the bandage on Stiles's cheek. “Is it feeling better?”

“Somewhat.” Derek's behavior was really taking him aback. Stiles wasn’t used to anyone paying this close of attention to what he did and how he felt about what he did - his father was more the pragmatic sort that let him run around without worrying too much about what he did. After all, if he did anything _too_ illegal, his father would find out before too long, and put a stop to it one way or another, and he didn’t exactly have a mother to watch over his shoulder anymore. And it wasn’t like Scott or Lydia were the protective sorts.

And Derek _was_?

This was getting stranger and more inexplicable by the second.  
  
Derek nodded, and sat down on the couch, and took Stiles’s hand in his and gently guided him down to the couch next to him. “Don’t worry about it. I'll help you take care of it. How did your father take it?”  
  
“I told him that my neighbor’s dog did it.” The thought of Derek making him chicken noodle soup and tucking him into bed and reading him Little Red Riding Hood or some other fairy tale to put him to sleep crossed through his mind, and he had to bite his lip in an attempt to not smile at it. He didn't see it out of the realm of possibility, what with Derek's current attitudes and all, strange as they may be.  
  
“That little thing I saw on the way in? I don’t think that dog could hurt a moth, let alone do _that_ to your face,” Derek said, attempting to bite back a laugh, and failing, as his words were tinged with the edge of a hearty laugh. “Did he buy it?”  
  
“I don’t think so, but he stopped giving me the third degree about it,” Stiles said. “So, that was a good thing.”  
  
“A very good thing,” Derek said, nodding his head in agreement. He slid his palm over Stiles's cheek. “You need your bandage changed. Where's the first aid kit?”

“Uh, in the bathroom?” Did this guy have like a sixth sense or something? Should he be Doctor Hale, emergency room doctor by day, werewolf by night? “You don't have to -”

“I'll be right back.” Derek got up from the couch in a hurry, and Stiles patted at his cheek. Yeah, it could probably use a changing, but he was fully resigned to doing it himself. And would insist on doing it himself. Except – Derek came strolling back in the room, first aid kit in tow, and Stiles had to smile. Okay, so maybe it was a little stifling, and a lot strange, about what was going on, but he couldn't resist the fact that Derek was going out of his way to do all this.

As Derek peeled off the used bandage and applied the new one with a finesse that Stiles would not have normally attributed to Derek, his smile grew wider. Every little brush of Derek's fingers over Stiles's cheek was enough to set his heart aflutter. He could get used to the taking care of part of being maimed, if it meant that he had a hunky werewolf helping him to heal.

“There,” Derek said proudly, patting Stiles's cheek and kissing the bandage softly. “All done.” He rolled up the bandage and threw it over to the trash can on the other side of the room, where it landed with a satisfying clunk. “Feeling any better?”

“You could move your lips a little to the left,” Stiles said. “Then I would feel a _lot_ better.” If he was given the bait, he was going to rise to it. That was all there was to it.

Derek obliged, kissing Stiles and pressing his tongue against Stiles's lower lip as he grasped the back of his head, grabbing at the tender hairs back there, holding onto him. Stiles let out a low moan as he kissed Derek back. This felt good. This was the best medicine there could be. Their bodies moved closer to each other, Stiles swinging his legs to rest over Derek's.

“Can I ask you a question?” Stiles asked, as they broke their kiss for a brief interlude.

“Sure, I guess,” Derek said. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Why have you been acting like the werewolf version of Florence Nightingale? I'm not complaining, but you've been seriously -” Stiles paused for a moment, in order to search for the right word.

Derek dropped his hand from Stiles's head to rest on his shoulder, and backed away from Stiles somewhat. “I – you're right. I've been overprotective.”

“Why, though? It's just a scratch. It'll heal, and I'll have a badass scar that will show that no one in this town should mess with me. Which, by the way, would be the first thing in my life to ever indicate that there could be such a thing.”

“Because it's not _just_ a scratch to me,” Derek said, burying his head in his hands. “I could have lost you, okay? That werewolf wanted you dead, and I could have lost you, and I _can't_ lose you. Everyone I love, I lose, and that can't happen to you. It just _can't_.”

“So what you're saying is that you need me.”

“What I'm saying, you dork, is that I love you, and I need you around, and that's not going to happen if rogue Omegas have their beastly little way with your face – and other parts of you – too many times.”

“I didn't think this would be how I got you to admit that you love me,” Stiles said, and even as he said it, he had to be happy. Sort of. His heart was all fluttery and it felt _good_ to be loved. It felt like his heart had grown a shiny new feathery pair of wings and had taken flight. “I thought it was going to take a candlelight dinner, maybe some strategically-placed spaghetti noodles, maybe a violin quartet playing in the background -”

“You know that's not how I do things,” Derek said.

“Would you kill a small animal and drag it to my doorstep like a dog?” Stiles agreed with Derek's sentiment. He'd probably glare daggers through the violin quartet and only eat the meatballs on the spaghetti.

“Not unless you _really_ wanted a bird carcass as the first present I ever gave you,” Derek said. “In other words, no. I would have told you just the two of us, maybe – maybe after the first time we had sex, or some other time when it was just the two of us. Now actually wasn't a terrible time, come to think of it. Just unintended.”

“I love you too, by the way. It's been nice, if unexpected, for you to do all this for me,” Stiles said. “Making sure that I'm okay, watching over me, changing my bandage...all of it. Thank you.”

“Only for you,” Derek said, closing his lips back over Stiles's. His one hand regained its former position on the back of Stiles's head, and the other found its way to the small of his back, and he held him like he never wanted to let go – like if he was to ever let go, he would lose Stiles forever, and that that was the last thing he ever wanted to see happen. Stiles combed his fingers through Derek's hair, tangling his fingers around tendrils and holding on to him – he wanted to stay close, because maybe if he woke up, he'd find out that this was all a fever dream. Could scratches induce hallucinations?

He slid his free hand down to his thigh and pinched the skin through the fabric of his jeans. Nope. Definitely not dreaming. Derek was definitely kissing him with all the fervor that he could imagine – tongues swiping along the course of each other's mouths, lips meshing against one another, and there were tiny little gasps of breath coming from Derek that he found incredibly hot.

Derek dipped him low against the couch cushion, so that he was suspended just above it. “When's your father getting home?” he asked, hovering above him.

“Uh, sometime tonight? Unless it's paperwork night, and then he'll stay later so that he can finish, but I'm not really interested in the work life of a small town sheriff, so I never ask him about these things?” Stiles said, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, if it's just you and me and this big, empty house of yours for hours...”

“Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting? I thought you'd want to wait,” Stiles said. “I mean, I'm not saying no, because I want to, with you, but I thought you'd -”

Derek interrupted Stiles's train of speech. “I almost lost you, okay? I'm so glad that I still have you, but I don't – I'm not so good at expressing my emotions with words. I'd rather show them to you with actions.”

“Is this your way of sweeping me off my feet? Werewolf romance is so strange to me,” Stiles said, his eyes twinkling with a laugh.

“Yes,” Derek said, swinging his arms and taking Stiles up in them: one arm was tucked under his knees, and the other rested in the middle of his back, and Stiles folded his legs over Derek's arm and grinned up at him. “I guess you could say it is.”

And he hadn't expected Derek to take him _literally_ on the whole sweeping him off his feet thing, he really hadn't – but as Derek carried him toward his bedroom, he couldn't help but admit that it was kind of nice. More than kind of, really. He ran the palm of his hand up and down Derek's spine and held on, but he knew that Derek would never drop him. If someone else hurting him was cause for this much alarm, then he could only imagine what would happen if Derek was the one to hurt him. He'd probably never actually manage to forgive himself.

“Left or right?” Derek asked, interrupting him from his Derek-focused train of thought. Funny how that worked: distracted from his distracting thoughts by the subject of his distraction.

“Uh, left. It's the door that's open.”

Derek strode through his doorway and laid him down on his bed, and then laid on top of him. They continued to kiss, and Derek's hand dropped to caress a patch of skin by Stiles's hip, while the other brushed over the bandage on his cheek and traced the contours of his jaw. Stiles threw his head back on his pillow and ran his hands down Derek's back, landing at the curve of his ass. He felt Derek thrusting his hips upward, and he wrapped his leg around Derek's and pulled him in closer. His fingers darted under the waistband of Derek's pants and skirted around the skin that was exposed to his questing touch.

Derek broke the kiss and tugged his shirt off over his head, and motioned for Stiles to do the same. As he did so, Stiles planted his hands on Derek's abs and felt them course under his touch. It felt so good to be this close to Derek, especially now that their shirts were somewhere on the floor and not separating them.

There was still the matter of pants, of course, but those could be easily taken care of as well, and with a little shuffling of their legs and some strategic button snapping, their pants were strewn at the foot of Stiles's bed, and Derek's lips were back on Stiles in a flash.

Stiles looked up at Derek and let out a tiny gasp as he felt Derek's lips move against the pulse point of his neck. He felt like his eyes could roll back in his head at any point now, and he would be totally fine with that. Totally, _completely_ , fine with that. He rubbed up against Derek and tried to pull him in closer; they only had the thinnest of fabric boundaries separating them now, but Derek didn't seem keen to fix this disparity like he had the rest. Instead, he rubbed against Stiles in return, in slow, languid strokes. Almost as if every stroke was Derek telling him in actions how much he meant to him. How much all this meant to him, all in the words that he could never hope to find.

Stiles felt the head of his cock slip out from his briefs, probably from the friction of the rubbing. It slipped above the waistband, and Derek must have sensed it too – either seen it or felt it, because he turned his attention to this newest development, sliding the pad of his thumb over the swollen head, feeling the first droplets of pre-cum condensing on his finger. “ _Derek_ ,” was all Stiles could say, on a gasp of stolen breath, before Derek closed his lips around Stiles's once again, not letting go of his cock all the while. He dragged his nail along the edge of Stiles's cock, and Stiles felt a deliciously cold shiver run through his body. This was excruciating, but if this was how he went, then he could go with no regrets.

Okay, maybe _one_ regret, but it wouldn't be one much longer, if he – or Derek – had much to say about it.

“Do you want me?” Derek asked, letting go of Stiles and moving both of his hands to cup at Stiles's face. “Do you want me the way I want you?”

“Yes.” It was the simplest declaration he could make, and the one he knew in his heart to be the most true of all the declarations he could make. He wanted Derek. He wanted to feel Derek over him, feel connected to Derek in every sense of the word, feel Derek inside him – all of it. He wanted it. More than anything, and more than he could find the words to express. He kind of felt like that might be a bit of a recurring theme with the two of them, using this dance between them as a way of expressing emotions that would be otherwise repressed for lack of words in the English language.

Derek nodded, and with that, he looked to Stiles. “Can I?”

“Stop with the game of twenty questions. Yes. Yes. _Yes._ Please. Yes.” Stiles was practically begging, but he wanted to get the point across to Derek – he wanted this just as much as he did, so this didn't have to be ring around the fucking rosie, he just wanted the teasing to stop and the action to begin.

Which was a point Derek obliged him on quite well, he noticed, as Derek took his briefs and pushed them down his legs. He kicked them off, and he figured that they would land where they would – he wasn't about to look, not when he could be looking at his sexy boyfriend instead. And Derek's followed in short suit, and he had to bite back a huge grin when he saw his boyfriend naked for the first time. God, he must be the luckiest guy in all of Beacon Hills. Make that California. Make that the country, or the world, because somehow, he had managed to hit the lottery jackpot with this one. Protective and sexy, what a great combination.

He slid his hand over Derek's buttock and felt it in his hand, while Derek parted Stiles's thighs with his hands and slid his hand in between them, to touch the delicately soft skin between his cock and his hole. “You want -”

“Yes. I already told you.” Stiles was growing increasingly impatient, and was about to take matters into his own hands.

And then, Derek dipped his head to brush against Stiles down there, and he tentatively reached out his tongue to flick inside Stiles. He wouldn't have to take matters into his own hands, then, which was good, because he wasn't sure what to do about it. Stiles about hit the ceiling with the sensation that he caused him to feel. It was like – he had never felt anything like it before, his boyfriend's tongue pressed inside him, moving around and making him feel like he was something worthy of being worshiped.

He could get used to this feeling, he felt. And he felt the flicker of Derek'stongue, and knew that he could get used to it. And it was nice, he thought, that Derek wouldn't be accidentally scratching his insides with a sharp nail, or something. That would be even harder to explain away than the wound on his face.

He writhed under Derek's touch and brushed his hand against Derek's skin, whimpering slightly at the sheer sensory overload that he was feeling. God, this felt _so_ good.

Derek slid his tongue out and rested on his knees, hovering over Stiles. “You're ready,” he said, and Stiles nodded, bobbing his head up and down. Because he had _always_ been ready for this, and there was nothing he wanted to have more than this moment right then. Derek linked his left hand with Stiles's, locking their fingers together as he slid his cock inside Stiles, and he sealed the connection with a strong, sturdy kiss that held the hint of so much left unspoken: _you're here with me, we're together, and nothing and nobody can change that._

Stiles stared at Derek, stared into his eyes, soaked in every bit of him that he could feel, and he thrust his hips upward, trying to change the trajectory of the thrusts as Derek bucked in and out of him. It started slow and languid, but the longer they stayed together, the faster Derek went, and Stiles timed his thrusts to match the new and increased speeds.

It could have been two minutes, or five, or ten – Stiles had a hard time telling time even when he wasn't currently being fucked into his mattress, and his skills were even worse now that he was. Not that he was complaining, not for anything. But he felt as though there was a white-hot fire burning inside his belly that ached to explode into a shower of sparks, and Derek had moved his free hand to cup Stiles's cock, and he felt the sensation of being jacked off as the fire grew in intensity.

It was over before he knew it, Derek coming inside him, his scream being swallowed up by Stiles's lips, and the feeling was enough to bring Stiles over the edge as well, coming into Derek's hand with a white, sticky shower.

“Wow,” Stiles said, looking up at Derek with the broadest grin on his face. “That was -”

Derek nodded, as he slid out of Stiles and moved to lay down next to him on the bed, still embracing him as he did so. “Yeah. Wow is about right.”

“Do you have any big plans for the rest of today?” Stiles asked. “I mean, I doubt that your original plans involved sexing up your boyfriend.”

“What do you mean? Even if I had some, I don't want to leave, especially now, unless you're going to have me leave.”

“Never,” Stiles said, kissing him again. “You're never leaving. I don't care what my father says.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Stiles let out an exaggerated yawn, snuggling in deeper. “So do I.”

- _fini_ -


End file.
